


The struggles of living in a world of neuro-typicals

by Xenay



Series: Asperger Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger Syndrome, Autism, Autism Acceptance Month 2019, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Dyspraxia, Gen, IBS, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Medication, Meltdown, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, OCD, Stimming, asd, shutdown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2020-01-06 08:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18384842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenay/pseuds/Xenay
Summary: Sequel to Winds of ChangeBeing neuro-atypical in a world of neuro-typicals is challenging every day.ALL MY WORKS ARE CURRENTLY ON HOLD DUE TO PERSONAL REASONS!!! SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE





	1. Medication trouble

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this is gonna be another one like my consulting asthmatic detective — another universe and a fanfic that will go on forever xD

They were at Scotland Yard, just gotten done with their statements and were waiting for Lestrade to get back.

 

Despite his medication, Sherlock seemed.. anxious. John hadn’t seen him this riled up since he started taking the Sertraline. Since yesterday he seemed to only get worse. So what is going on?

 

He went over to the detective, who was tapping his foot on the ground and his fingers on his lap in frantic motions. “Sherlock?”

The detective looked at him shortly. “There has to be something! Something I’m missing! Argh! How can I be so blind-!” “Sherlock! Geez, calm down. What’s going on with you? You are still taking your meds, right?”

 

Sherlock stilled his movements and looked down at his body as if only now realizing what he was doing. “I am, I swear. It’s just.. these lamps are clearly broken, that sound is driving me nuts!” John couldn’t hear anything. Sherlock suddenly jumped up and started pacing. “And the coffee machine in the lobby is so old and rusty I can hear it from here every time a damned officer decides to throw money in it! Then there’s the fact that these stacks of papers are so horribly- gah!” He suddenly went over to said papers and lined them up in perfect sync.

 

There was the OCD, John mused. But it made him worried, because his meds should help with anxiety and OCD. “Sherlock.”

 

But the detective wasn’t done. “Three of those idiots are having affairs, two of which are with each other. Hear them laughing, John? And there is a baby crying, wailing for the last ten minutes in the other building- WHERE IS THE DAMNED MOTHER?!” He was breathing heavily. He started repeatedly knocking the knuckles of his right fist on his left collarbone, and John was sure it would bruise later.

 

John was getting concerned. He wanted to lay a hand on his shoulder but refrained from touching him. “Sherlock-”

 

The detective started pacing again. “And then there’s this annoying, never ending clicking of keyboards from all of them writing and tapping and making mistakes and erasing them and the slurping- GOD THE BLOODY SLURPING! HAS NO ONE EVER TOLD THEM NOT TO DRINK SO DISGUSTINGLY?!” He suddenly pulled on his dark brown curls.

 

John decided it would be wise to just let him rant. Something was definitely not right, but he knew better than to stop him from stimming as long as he wasn’t inflicting serious damage to himself. So John just stood there and hoped that Sherlock would calm down soon.

 

But the detective seemed to come close to collapsing. He suddenly leaned on the table with his hands, hunched over, panting, eyes closed.

 

“Sherlock are you okay?” Stupid question, but John felt it was the normal thing to do in this situation. He didn’t want Sherlock to faint in the office of Scotland Yard, but if his sensory overload didn’t stop Right Now, John thought it wouldn’t end in their favor.

 

The doctor decided it might be a good idea to shut off the lights in the room, since they are causing part of the problem; and also to shut the door to make everything more quiet.

 

He then gently eased Sherlock to the ground with him. And waited.

 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, but John noticed he was pressing his back against the wall. His breathing became more calm with each passing minute, and John was sure that they conquered the evil.

 

Or so he thought.

 

Sherlock was shifting around, again. “Sherlock-?” John was about to ask him when he got his answer. “John, bathroom..”

 

This was the third time in two hours that he said this, or well, excused himself. But John wasn’t sure if leaving the safety of the room so soon was a good idea. He needed a plan.

 

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.” He quickly told Sherlock and, as quietly as possible, left the room.

He was looking for Lestrade. He could make everyone be silent for a few minutes, surely?

 

 

 

Sherlock kept wondering what was going on with him today. He had to use the bathroom twice since waking up this morning. Once at home and once at the Yard. He also had to get up and go at night once, when he normally slept like a rock in the post case crash, as John calls it.

It wasn’t like he drank large amounts of water or coffee or something like that. And he certainly wasn’t sick. No fever, no nausea, no pains. Just his kidneys being overly happy to do their work, it seems. Almost as if he was given-

 

A diuretic?

 

Sherlock got up, and winced at the pressure in his bladder. Where was John?

 

He said he would be right back, but it must have been ten minutes by now. He checked his wristwatch.

Alright, maybe it was just over 3 minutes. God why was his brain so messed up today?

 

No matter. He would just have to go to the bathroom on his own. It wasn’t like he needed John for that, anyways.

 

He flinched when he opened the door and the onslaught of piercing light and a mess of sounds assaulted his senses. His bladder wasn’t happy about the sudden stop and insisted he go Now.

Well, he would just have to push through.

 

Which wasn’t exactly easy with his already heightened senses, a painful pressure on every step, and his thoughts whirling through his head.

 

Who could have done this? He was careful enough- okay, maybe he was a Bit OCD and simply won’t take food or liquids from anyone (besides John) outside of the comfort of his home. So it couldn’t have been through anything digestible outside his own home. And who came to his home? John, Mrs Hudson, And sometimes Lestrade And Mycroft.

 

He doubted that any of them were cruel enough to slip him diuretics, he thought as he entered a bathroom stall.

 

So who- “Sherlock? You in here?” John.

 

“Yes.” The detective answered over his own stream. He wasn’t one to embarrass over something like this, especially not with John.

 

“You okay?” John asked after an awkward silence.

 

“John, it’s diuretics. Someone has somehow slipped them into me.”

 

“Diuretics? You sure you aren’t getting sick?”

 

Sherlock flushed. “Nope. Everything is fine, otherwise.” He said as he came out and went to the sinks to wash his hands.

 

 

 

John felt immensely awkward but didn’t comment. “What about the, uh.. you know. SPD and anxiety stuff.” He had to stop himself from mentioning the OCD, since Sherlock still denied it on every aspect, and also not to say words like autism or Asperger.

 

Sherlock apparently hadn’t noticed, because he suddenly froze. “The meds. Someone replaced the Sertraline with diuretics.”

 

What in the world, John thought. “But who besides me, and probably Mycroft, knows about them? Are you sure you didn’t just miss a dose?”

 

“No John, I didn’t. Which means that I took diuretics ever since they were switched. Apparently they aren’t very strong. If they were switched for a few days, which I think since the Sertraline takes up to two days to be fully absorbed and therefore to stop working, the diuretics can only be over the counter bought with a small enough dosage to only see a result if you take multiple-”

“Or over the course of days. I know. But Who could have done it? Who, besides me, has access to them? And it definitely wasn’t me.” John said.

 

“Never said it was you.” Sherlock stood opposite him with his arms crossed, looking in the direction of the mirror, and John suspected he was only halfway here, and halfway working it out in his brain.

 

Suddenly the door behind John opened, startling them both. “There you two are! We’ve been looking for you.” Lestrade said with his head sticking into the men’s room.

 

John momentarily glared at him. “I’ve been looking for You! But I think it has been dealt with on its own.”

 

Lestrade gave him a questioning glare.

 

“Never mind. Anyway, if you don’t need us anymore, we need to be off.” John said, glancing at Sherlock and mentally willing him to follow him.

 

“Oh? Something going on?” Lestrade asked, and came into the men’s room and closed the door behind him. Great, John thought.

 

“Someone apparently switched Sherlock’s meds for diuretics. We have to figure out who.” He said sharply. Hopefully Sherlock hadn’t heard him, John didn’t think he would like people knowing.

 

Lestrade looked surprised. “I didn’t know he-” “Yes, so please keep it to yourself. Anyway, whoever it was must have been at our flat, because that’s where we keep them.”

 

“Actually..” Sherlock’s voice made them suddenly turn to him. John groaned inside his head. “Remember when we were investing in the case with the kidnapped girl and had to stay in a hotel in-”

“You mean the one... what was it, four days ago?” “Three days ago that we got home. Two and a half at the hotel. And the only ones who had access to our room were our client, Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson.”

 

Lestrade suddenly frowned. “Were the meds in the bathroom?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Left mirror cabinet. Behind the extra towel.”

 

John suddenly perked up. “I had to get the other one dried, remember? Because Someone managed to-”

 

“That was an accident!” Sherlock snapped.

 

Lestrade decided he better not know. “It was that same day we went through the plan with you?”

 

They both nodded. “And if I recall correctly, Donovan said she had to ‘powder her nose’, and didn’t come out of our bathroom for at least five minutes.”

 

“Well you know how women are about their Make-up-” John started but Sherlock corrected him.

 

“Powdering the nose is women code for needing to use the facilities, John. And I remember now, that she carried her handbag inside with her, and the sound of pills moving.”

 

John and Lestrade shared a look. “That still doesn’t explain why she had diuretics on her.” Lestrade commented.

 

“You will know in a few weeks when she brings the maternity leave papers.” Sherlock said absentmindedly. He could already feel the slightest pressure from his bladder, again.

 

“Matern- she’s pregnant?! From wh- actually nevermind, don’t tell me.” Lestrade rambled. “I’ll go have a word with her and see if she has the actual meds.” He said before rushing out.

 

John had to admit that he was pretty mad now. Donovan may have been arrogant, ignorant, and even mean to Sherlock, but never did John think her capable of doing something like this. He shook his head.

 

Then he noticed that Sherlock was looking at the bathroom stalls again. “Just go, and once we know where your meds are we’ll go home.” John told him and left the room, but waited outside.

 

 

Not soon after Sherlock joined John, did Lestrade come to them, with Donovan trailing behind him. “Here are your meds, freak.” She said annoyed and handed over a carton package of what John recognized as the name of common, over the counter diuretics.

 

“I hope Anderson will be at least double the father than he is a man.” Sherlock commented with a slight smirk, and Donovan blushed a deep red. “They didn’t all come back positive so don’t think you’re right, just yet.”

 

“The diuretics lessen the concentration, you should have just tried every morning if you’re so uncertain.” John took the package and grabbed Sherlock’s arm to drag him out.

 

 

 


	2. Shutdown

 

 

When Greg Lestrade opened the door to 221B he wasn't half as surprised as he probably should have been when he saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table in nothing but a white sheet.

 

John hadn't noticed him yet, he was reading his papers and pretended not to notice that Sherlock was apparently trying to get the perfectly equal amount of butter on his two slices of toasts.

 

Greg shook his head. So the meds hadn't kicked in, yet. "Ahem." He decided to make himself known.

 

"Greg! What brings you here this morning?" John asked. He didn't even bother with the 'how did you get in here', because he already figured that he had gotten a key from Mycroft so he could enter in emergencies.

 

"Sorry for storming in here. I got a call and couldn't reach either of you." He explained, and raised an eyebrow. John looked at his detective friend.

 

"They kept buzzing - it was annoying." He said around his toast, never bothering to look at either of them, or say 'hello'. John gave him a pointed look. "Where-" "In the freezer."

 

John groaned and went to hopefully save both their phones before they were broken beyond repair.

 

"Well...." Lestrade started, unsure if he should explain now or if John would give Sherlock a scolding.

 

"Start telling. You're boring me." Sherlock said, still not looking at the DI and started on his second slice.

 

"The case with the woman's daughter you saved. She decided to start a trial against the men that you stopped and got behind bars-"

 

"That You put behind bars."

 

"-.. yeah, anyways. And you'll have to testify."

 

John had come back with the frozen phones, and both him and Sherlock were silent for a moment, thinking the same thing.

 

There was no way he could testify in front of dozens of strangers, press, and juries. Not in the state he was currently in. John hoped they at least got a week.

 

"Fine. When is it?" Sherlock asked.

 

Greg bit his lip. "This afternoon."

 

Sherlock choked on his toast, and John hurried over to slap him on the back.

 

"I know, I'm sorry it's on such short notice. I didn't hear about it before an hour, myself. I know you don't do well with spontaneous things-"

 

"Greg, he can't. It's too much pressure." John said for his friend.

 

"I know. And I'm sorry! But all he has to do is read from his own notes that he'd given us as statement. If he focuses on it enough, he can block everything else out. I know he does that." Lestrade said.

 

John looked at his friend again. He was in only his bedsheets because clothes bothered him today, his skin apparently hypersensitive, and the OCD had been bad enough this morning that he had to keep changing what was on the table so it was in a certain formation that made zero sense to John. Not to mention the poor toast that had long been cold by the time he was satisfied with the amounts of butter on both slices. Plus he wouldn't look at anyone this morning, so far.

 

"John, I can do it. Remember when I had to do it on the Moriarty case?" Sherlock asked and looked at John, and only then realized that it was probably the wrong thing to say when John cringed at the name. He looked away again, mumbling a "sorry."

 

"That was before you ju-.. before you were away. You'd been on your meds on a much higher dosage than now, and we're only getting you back on them still, thanks to Donovan."

 

"Yes, sorry about that, again." Lestrade said, scratching the back of his neck.

 

"Give me the time, Jeff."

 

"It's 'Greg'."

 

 

—

 

 

John found his friend in the men's room of he court house, looking at his own reflection and seemingly trying to straighten his tuxedo-like-coat's collar for the millionth time. John put it down to a stim, or just him needing to have his hands do something.

 

He doesn't comment on it and doesn't touch any of it himself. He just hands him his stack of paper.

 

"Remember, just look at the papers. Try to block out the people." John said, trying to be helpful.

 

Sherlock only nodded, not looking any more ready than he did two minutes ago.

 

 

—

 

 

"Making out who the kidnapper was, before any harm could be done to my client, was fairly easy." Sherlock started reading off the paper. John had specifically crossed out any kind of insults to anyone.

 

He started telling how he could figure out what the culprit was planning, and John and Greg thought it was all going well.

 

Too well.

 

 

Until someone coughed.

 

They instantly bore their eyes on Sherlock, to see him give the tiniest jump that probably everyone else missed, and had stopped reading for just a millisecond.

 

And for the sake of empathetic nature, suddenly half the audience was coughing sporadically.

 

John and Lestrade watched their friend in worried sympathy as first his shoulders, then his fingers were twitching. Lestrade whispered to John that they had to get him out of here.

 

"Why? What's going on?" John whispered back.

 

"He's suppressing and close to a melt- or shutdown." He explained. Greg managed to make eye contact with the judge, then moved his eyes to Sherlock and to the door. The judge nodded. "Ahem. I think this will be enough, Mister Holmes." He says gently.

 

John didn't have time to wonder why he was this kind, when the last time they were here he had him locked up for his smart mouth.

 

Greg nudged him in the side. "Go. Help him."

 

John scrambled up and ran down the stairs to his friend, past the paparazzi with their flashing cameras, not caring about what the media had to say later, for now.

 

By now the entire audience was having hushed conversations with each other about the 'weird guy'.

 

He put an arm around Sherlock's waist without touching him, and said a quiet "come on".

 

Sherlock let himself be led, not looking at anything. John could only explain him as 'vacant'.

 

When they were out of the room and the door closed behind them, John led him on the benches out in the hallways.

 

He didn't know what to do now. Mrs Hudson had told him about the meltdowns, and that hugs helped. But he wasn't smashing things, screaming, or harming himself.

 

Shutdown. That's what this was.

 

John remembers reading about it. He just had to keep him somewhere silent and safe, and let him come out on his own.

 

So.. touching or no touching?

 

He guessed that as little sensory input was the best, and sat down with a bit of space between him and Sherlock, trying to be as silent as possible.

 

And then the door opened up quickly and Lestrade ran out, letting the door slam behind him. "Shit, sorry." He noticed Sherlock and John; the detective showed no signs of having heard him or the door, and John was glaring at him. He then made a motion with his finger to the lips to tell him to shut up.

 

Lestrade nodded. He decided he probably wasn't much help right now and went looking for the cafeteria.

 

 

John just sat there, never really looking at him but keeping an eye on Sherlock for any signs - wether good or bad, Anything was welcome to him right now.

 

He kept looking down at his wrist watch. He had no idea how long this could take. He hoped it wouldn't last for hours. For both their sakes.

 

Either Sherlock could read his thoughts, or it was just getting him away from the stress zone, but the detective started to stir back to life.

 

He blinked a lot, and looked around the room, as if confused where they were.

 

"You back?" John whispered.

 

Sherlock shook his head for a second, like a dog who was hit by a raindrop on the head.

 

"Back?" Sherlock asked. So he wasn't non-verbal. John saw that as a good sign.

 

"You were.. vacant for a bit."

 

Sherlock frowned, then shrugged.

 

"Can we go?" He asked.

 

John thought about this. "I guess so. Let me just find Lestrade and tell him we're leaving." He then said and got back to his feet.

 

"Why don't you just text him?" The detective asked and got up as well.

 

"Because *Someone* put both our phones in the freezer, and mine still isn't working." John answered, a bit angry.

 

"Well what do you expect? You should finally accept Mycroft's offer and take an iPhone." Sherlock argued, as if none of this was his fault.

 

John crossed his arms over his chest. "No thanks. He'd probably have it bugged and listen to everything through the microphone."

 

"He already does that with yours. I bet even you could hack into your bloody phone. I know I can."

 

"I am not even gonna ask." John said and shook his head with his eyes closed.

 

"Sherlock if you don't stop hacking into other people's phone I'll have to arrest you one day." Lestrade said as he suddenly came over to them. "Glad to see you're feeling better, mate." He said fondly.

 

"Can we go now?" Sherlock asked, again.

 

"Yes, yes, we're leaving!" John exclaimed and started leaving.

 

Lestrade gave Sherlock a pointed look. "Are you being a handful again?"

 

Sherlock huffed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

 

"Sherlock!!"

 

"Coming!"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you guys want to see more of this


	3. IBS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Around 80% of people on the spectrum deal with some sort of digestive disorder.
> 
> Irritable bowel syndrome is a very real diagnose and something I've been dealing with for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates on here. I promise that unlike some people, I will update within a few months time, depending on what's been going on in life and my other projects on here.

 

They had a fight.

 

In all honesty, John had just been waiting until they got at each other's throats like before they were separated.

 

Although he never would have guessed that the trigger was food.

 

 

John had made ravioli, because he likes them. 

 

Sherlock, of course, hadn't helped him and had been 'busy' otherwise with whatever he had been doing on his phone.

 

"Sherlock! Lunch is ready!" He had called.

 

He put the plates down and started scooping what he thought were equal portions on the two plates.

 

He already sat down when Sherlock finally came - 

And made a face at the food.

 

John glared at him. "If you didn't want them, you should have said something  before  I prepared them!" He snapped at him. 

 

This was the third time this happened. 

 

First he didn't like any green vegetables. It didn't matter what it was. It was green - he wouldn't eat it. But on another day he would Only eat green.

 

Another time he complained about the bread. It was whole-grain. And Sherlock said that he couldn't handle so many different tastes and textures at the same time.

He even started to pick out the grains, before John told him to get the wheat bread that he had gotten as well.

 

He had tried to be patient. But even his patience was wearing thin lately.

Especially since Sherlock won't go shopping with him, so they could avoid most of the food-related problems.

 

 

Sherlock reluctantly sat down at the table and started pushing the ravioli around in the tomato sauce. He could already tell from the smell that John had put spice in the red sauce, and that the ravioli were filled with both vegetables and meat.

 

He already felt nauseated from the smell, and imagining that he'd have to put it in his mouth, and swallow it, to please John.

 

He could feel John's fierce glare on him, and after a bit (lot) of self encouragement, he put the first one in his mouth.

 

 

He almost spat it back out when he tasted the salt on the pasta, bit it in half, and the spicy sauce combined with the mixed insides of the pasta felt like dirt and gravel and other things that you definitely should not put inside your mouth.

 

He cringed even harder when he forced himself to swallow it.

 

He grabbed for the glass of water immediately afterwards, and John got up from the table with an even madder look.

 

What had he done wrong now? He ate the horrible excuse for food! John should be happy! 

 

But he had put on his shoes and jacket and stormed out of the flat, slamming the front door behind him.

 

 

And Sherlock only felt more bad. 

 

Despite his common sense yelling at him that this was a  **_horrible_** idea, he started eating his food ever so slowly.

 

 

\---

 

 

John was sick of it. He hadn't exactly signed up to live with someone on the autism spectrum. 

 

He would have liked a little workshop before hand. Like those birth-preparation-courses. 

 

He leaned on the railing, a sea glistering in the few rays of sun before him.

 

He didn't mean it, and he knew it. He just still had to get used to... well, to Sherlock. 

 

And sometimes, he supposed, he just forgets that Sherlock is 'different' and struggling with things and situations that seem normal and of no problem for himself. 

 

He heard a car door open and close somewhere behind him and didn't pay it any mind.

 

"Didn't really expect to find you here, Doctor Watson."

 

John hung his head and closed his eyes for a moment. 

 

"I'm guessing that this has to do with my brother?" Mycroft pressed further.

 

John turned to him. "Yes. Of course! When  isn't  something to do with him?!" He exclaimed and threw his hands in the air.

 

"What's he done now?" Mycroft asked, dismissing the outburst. He was used to that from his parents.

 

John sighed. "I just.. what is so hard about eating food like everybody else?"

 

Mycroft laughed. 

 

Actually laughed.

 

John just looked at him dumbfounded. 

 

"John. My brother has a very difficult relationship with 'food'. For him it isn't just food. It's a challenge every time, seeing wether he can stand this and that texture or taste today."

 

"Or color." John muttered.

 

"Ah yes.. he is at war with the color green sometimes. I don't suppose you noticed that he owns not a single piece of clothing of that color?" 

 

John blinked. "Now that you mention it.... why--"

 

"An experiment with a frog and a green salad gone  _very_ wrong, I'm afraid." Mycroft said with a sort of melancholic voice. 

 

John decided not to question it.

 

"What did you make?" The elder Holmes decided to ask next.

 

"Ravioli." John said it like a criminal confessing to a crime.

 

Mycroft actually seemed pained. "Vegetable?"

 

"Veggie and meat. He needs the proteins."

 

Mycroft shook his head at him. "He can't tolerate ravioli of any kind. Trust me, our mother has tried."

 

John groaned. "Would have been nice if I had known that beforehand."

 

Mycroft gave him a sympathetic smile. "I don't mean to put salt into the wound, but speaking of salt.. how much did you use?"

 

John shrugged. "I like to use more than less, I guess. Probably a trait from being in Afghanistan. I can use as much as I want here."

 

Mycroft shook his head. "Not if you want to have Sherlock eat it. He has something that no doctor can put their finger on, but salt, no matter what amount, triggers his IBS."

 

John looked at him with wide eyes. "He- what-?!"

 

"We both hate the term but it stands f-"

 

"I know what irritable bowel syndrome is! I didn't know He Had It!!!" John yelled at him, slowly starting to freak out. "God! I probably put enough chili pepper into the sauce to completely mess it up!"

 

Mycroft grimaced. 

 

"I'm taking us to Baker Street. Let's hope he took his meds or has them in the bathroom with him." Mycroft said and ushered John to the black Mercedes.

 

 

#

 

 

He should have stopped when he tasted the salt and sauce on the first one. 

 

He definitely should have stopped when his stomach began to burn and grumble angrily at him.

 

But he only stopped when he had two pieces left on the plate, and had to rush to the bathroom before his behind seemed to explode.

 

 

"Sherlock!" John yelled into the flat when they came in.

 

"Check the bathroom. I'll go see if he has the meds in his room." Mycroft told him. John nodded and let Mycroft go to Sherlocks room before he knocked on the bathroom door.

 

"Sherlock? You alright?" John asked hesitantly.

 

"I'm fine!" Came the pained voice of his friend.

 

Mycroft came back to John, holding a small bag and a pill. "Stop pretending, he knows. I got your meds and I hope you left the door unlocked like we agreed on."

 

Sherlock didn't answer and John only watched the older brother open the door a bit and throw the little package and pill like a frisbee, completely blind, and apparently directly at Sherlock.

 

John's mind was beyond trying to understand the brothers' abilities. 

 

Mycroft closed the door again. "We'll be in the living room." He said loud enough for Sherlock to hear, and motioned for John to move.

 

John then noticed the plates on the kitchen table. His was still halfway full from when he left, but Sherlock's was almost empty. 

 

He felt dread squeezing at his insides. 

 

Sherlock had known that this was going to end badly, but he still ate it just to please John. And then he tried to pretend like nothing was the matter.

 

John shook his head, and Mycroft gave him a knowing look, probably having deduced what had occurred. 

 

 

They sat in silence. No TV, laptop or other devices. When Sherlock finally came out to them some fifteen minutes later, looking horribly pale and sweat actually dripping from his curls, that clung to his forehead.

 

John gave him a pitying glance. He really should have known better. If Sherlock was lucky enough to suffer from SPD, he most likely was lucky enough to have IBS as well. 

 

"How are you feeling?" He carefully asked him, as Sherlock curled up sitting on the sofa. 

 

"I think my ass is bleeding." Sherlock said bluntly, his face giving no reaction.

 

Mycroft and John both cringed. Although John figured that Mycroft had probably seen that before on his brother, or at least heard it before.

 

"What were those meds?" John asked, trying to get the image out of his head.

 

Mycroft answered for his brother. "The pill for protecting the inner walls from acid and the powder in the bag was for the diarrhea, if you must know." 

 

John only nodded. He'd have to ask him or Sherlock later where they are kept, and move some of them to the bathroom as well, just to be on the safe side.

 

John turned to his friend this time. "Why didn't you tell me what you can and cannot eat?"

 

Sherlock shrugged. 

 

"Can't you just make me a list or something?" John pressed further.

 

"Mrs Hudson has one sticking to her fridge." Sherlock said.

 

Mycroft grinned to himself. He had been the one to give the poor woman a copy of the list he had made for their parents, all through observation since Sherlock wouldn't tell him whenever he had beensuffering.

 

Sherlock gave him a knowing look, and John just felt lost in the middle and figured that he would ask Mrs Hudson about the list tomorrow.

 

 

 


	4. Talking is hard sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is short but kind of needed for the next chapter.

 

_John Watson watched with a smile as Sherlock rambled off all his deductions to DI Lestrade, never getting his tongue in a twist even though he spoke at a speed that was hard to keep up with._

 

_He smiled, because he knew that this was a good day._

 

_He smiled, because he knew the days where the detective struggled with saying even 'yes' and 'no'._

 

\---

 

He was mad. Annoyed. He had asked him three times now. And not once had he received an answer.

 

That. Was. It.

 

John stomped out from the kitchen, eyes searching over the living room, only to find it empty.

 

"Sherlock! Where are you?!"

 

He was answered by equally pissed off stomping of his flatmates bare feet coming from inside his room.

 

John was startled when Sherlock ripped his door open and gave John a death glare. "Who."

 

John blinked. It took a moment until he realized that it was a question. "Who what?"

 

"My room!"

 

Okay then..?

 

John sighed and momentarily closed his eyes to calm himself. This was obviously the autism. Sherlock always became short-answered and agitated when it has to do with his autism.

 

"Okay. What is wrong with your room?" John asked him calmly.

 

He watched half interested when Sherlock suddenly pressed his arms against each other while stretched out, making weird looking movements. "It- it-ss _ss **ss**_ clean!"

 

Admittedly, John was a bit taken aback by the delay and pressed out speech. But he knew better than to comment on it.

 

"Well.. the flat shouldn't exactly look like a junkyard-" "No!"

 

John blinked at him. Okay, something about his room being cleaned is riling him up.

 

"Okay. You don't like your stuff being touched. You touch my things all the time though.""No! No! NO!!!" Sherlock yelled and was now pacing in the small space before his room door, pulling on the hems of his sleeves.

 

John mentally sighed, lord give him strength.

 

"Sherlock. Sherlock, hey. Look at me. Sherlock, look at me. Come on." But it was in vain, he wouldn't make eye contact and John was not going to grab his arm and make him.

 

So he waited. And didn't say anything. Only watched as his flatmate seemed to go slowly insane by his cleaned room.

Completely normal day, then.

 

"It's not.. it's not there.. it's not there it's not.. not there.." Sherlock chanted over and over in a half whisper. John figured he probably didn't even know he was doing it. It sounded like thoughts on a broken record, being re-played over and over and accidentally coming out through the wrong cable, for everyone to hear.

 

"Sherlock. What is 'not there'? Come on mate, tell me. Give me all the facts." John tried a new strategy now: using Sherlockian speech.

 

But he didn't seem to hear him. So John took the liberty to just go into his room and see for himself.

 

Everything was nicely cleaned and tidied up. There wasn't a single dust particle in the entire room. But when he laid eyes on the bed, he quickly realized the problem: the heavy blanket he had grown used to seeing was gone. Mrs Hudson must have taken it down to clean it as well.

 

That's why he was so anxious and agitated. He was probably overwhelmed when he saw that everything in His room was organized differently, and when he needed the comfort of the weighted blanket, it wasn't there.

 

What had Mrs Hudson told him? Sometimes hugs can help him as well.

 

It almost sounded insane. Hugging Sherlock. The man who despised touch more than most people despise roaches running over their food.

Not a good example, John scolded himself, and not going to help Sherlock.

 

He went back out of the room to find the small hallway empty. "Sherlock?"

 

No answer, of course. He quietly went back to their living room. Empty.

To the kitchen. Emp- _hello_.

 

Under the table, in helpless search for safety, was his flatmate cowered and rocking back and forth just the tiniest bit.

 

John crawled under it to his friend, and hesitantly wrapped his arms around his tense friend, who showed no sign of knowing that John was even there.

 

John awkwardly squeezed his arms around him and just sat there. Time was a thing for another dimension in that moment. He only felt the rising and falling of Sherlock's chest.

 

By then, John had no clue he had even been mad in the first place.

 

 


	5. It can't get any worse, right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has an outside perspective of witnessing a meltdown.. sort of.
> 
> This just kept going and going, this must be the longest chapter I wrote in this story lol

 

 

It was a bad day. 

 

And bad days were always horrible.

 

The days where everything was too loud and too bright.

 

They were the days, where his finer and thicker motorical skills seem to have been completely erased from his mind palace. 

 

The days, where he keeps dropping his phone, and pretty much every equipment for experiments. 

 

The days where he walked and moved stiff like a string puppet and couldn't even form his hands into full fists.

 

The problems that always made him self conscious and agitated.

 

And of course on exactly those days, Lestrade has to call him to a complete mystery that he can't solve.

 

 

John probably should have realized that something was wrong when he saw Sherlock, talking to his phone, which laid on the table before him, and he could hear Lestrade on speaker.

 

"Case?" He had only asked, when he should have questioned why Sherlock didn't even hold the phone in his hand.

 

"John?" Asked Lestrade through the phone speaker.

 

"Yeah I'm.. listening." He said and his brain seemed to catch up with him, finally. 

 

"Right. So we have this weird killer, who kills one boy of a kids football team every week. There are no clues and no pattern-"

 

"Wrong."

 

"..."

 

"Uh.. want to enlighten me? I mean, I didn't even tell you everything-"

 

"There is obviously a pattern. You just said he kills one each week. Ugh..." Sherlock said, laying a hand on his forehead as if the blunt stupidity physically hurt him.

 

John raised an eyebrow at him.

 

"Ahem. Right.. so, we got all evidence at the station. We just need the genius who can tell us who will be next, or better yet, who the murderer is." Lestrade said and hung up.

 

Goddammit, now he had to go to the Yard. 

 

Sherlock gave an annoyed groan and picked up his phone, switched it off- and judging from the cluttering sound on the floor, he had dropped it. Again.

He rolled his eyes and bent down to pick it back up. At this rate he will break the screen protection glass. 

 

"Uhm. Sherlock? Everything alright?" He heard John say behind him. Ask, he corrected himself. 

 

"Fine. Get your jacket, the sooner we solve this the sooner we'll be back home."

 

John never got to ask him why they had to be back home as soon as possible.

 

 

\---

 

 

On the cab ride to the Yard, John watched as Sherlock moved his fingers into a half fist repeatedly, staring at them as if they were a new and undiscovered species on this planet.

 

Sherlock didn't pay John any mind. He was annoyed that he couldn't make fists. It was a test that he always did whenever his motorical issues made an appearance. If he couldn't make fists, he would probably get his tongue in a knot if he talked too quickly. 

 

How dull.

 

 

\---

 

 

"Alright George, I'm here. Bring me all your evidence." Sherlock announced when they came in. 

 

John facepalmed behind him, and Greg just sighed and didn't bother to correct Sherlock anymore.

 

Lestrade just motioned for them to follow him to the evidence room, where they had each of the boy tricots in see-through evidence bags. 

 

Sherlock momentarily winced at the harsh light of a broken bulb that nobody ever bothers to change. The ultra high pitched hum of it distracting him.

 

Sherlock's eyes scanned the table for a few seconds and went to grab one of the bags, only to have the edge repeatedly slipping through his fingers. He groaned. "John, turn this one over." He says louder than he probably should, but the noise of the light is ringing in his ears.

 

John raised a questioning eyebrow at him, but did as he was told. 

 

Sherlock frowned at the name that now stared him in the face, 'William'. Number 13. How cliche. 

 

He turns towards Lestrade. "Were the boys killed in this order?" He asked and hovered a hand over the lined up shirts.

 

"Eh, yes. Why? Did you find something?" 

 

Sherlock picked up the list of all names of the people in that specific soccer club, not noticing that while his eyes scanned the names, he emitted a monotone hum. 

A subconscious stim to stay focused despite the light bulbs distraction.

 

Nobody in the room commented because they all assumed it was just him thinking.

 

He suddenly turned back to Lestrade. "Arrest Winston Tompson."

 

Lestrade stared at him for a moment. "The trainer?" He asked, shocked.

 

"Look at the names. Take the first letter of each name; he is writing his own name. Get some res..search done; his team has lost eververery time the last five years and he blames the kids, even though he is just a bad trainer." Sherlock said, stumbling over his own words every time he tries to speed up his speech, just to escape the insane-driving noise that was getting louder by the minute.

 

He then suddenly left the room again and John just ran after him, leaving the dumbstruck Greg behind.

 

 

"You know, you could at least say things like 'good day' or something before abruptly leaving." John scolded him when they were outside.

 

Sherlock didn't reply, and John noticed that his entire posture was as stiff as a board. 

 

"Sherlock? You alright?" John finally asked him. No answer again. John bit his lip.

 

Suddenly Sherlock almost stumbles, and he groans in annoyance that his shoelace had opened all the way to the knot, because he hadn't been able to get it done properly before they left the flat.

 

He knelt down and tried his best to control his fingers, but he didn't get it through the little noose right and pulled it back open instead of tying a bow.

 

He growled this time and barely held back on pulling the damned shoe off and throwing it against a wall, or more satisfyingly break a window with it.

 

John decided to act. "Here, let me help." He had figured out by now that Sherlock was struggling with dyspraxia and possibly just inches from exploding into a melt- or shutdown. 

 

"It's okay, let's just get a cab and go home." John muttered as he also fixed up the other shoelace while he was at it. 

 

Sherlock was all for going home. The by passers were giving them odd looks and he was growing sick of hearing meaningless babbling from their stupid conversations about who wore the better dress on a gala.

 

But this day just kept getting worse from then on. 

 

No cab ever even passed them, so they kept on walking. It was getting dark very fast, and out of the blue, they barely heard a guy running towards them, before Sherlock was suddenly slammed forward, a death grip around his neck, and a gun pointed to his temple.

 

John yelped in surprise, Sherlock was too caught off guard to be able to react other than becoming close to hyperventilating. 

 

"Stay away! Stay away from me, you hear?!" The man yelled at John and suddenly pointed the gun at him. John slowly raised his hands in a submissive matter. "You. You and your fucking genius detective." He spat the words at both of them, and it suddenly dawned on John that this must be Winston, running from the police and holding a hostage to get away.

 

Sherlock still didn't react, in fact he was barely even moving anymore, and John was worried that he had shut down because he couldn't flee from the situation. He gave his friend a worried look and bit his lower lip.

 

"You assholes! You ruined my career! They weren't supposed to find out it was me! All these useless boys, I needed better players!" Winston kept yelling and tightened his chokehold on Sherlock, who suddenly jumped back to life and started struggling furiously. "Hold still you freak!"

 

"Sherlock stop! Calm down!" John tried to help but he really should have known better by now; loud noises just make it worse.

 

Sherlock was pulling, tugging, trying to get this stranger to let go of him, and while the guy only tightened his hold further, Sherlock had managed to lower his face and was able to bite the man in the arm.

 

Winston yelped and accidentally dropped his gun as he needed the free hand to try to get Sherlock to let go, but he only bit harder now. 

 

In a desperate attempt to get Sherlock off, he suddenly stretched his arm fully to the side, getting long scratching teeth marks through his clothing, and in all honesty John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock had drawn blood.

 

Winston stumbled away from him and went for his gun again, but John was faster, and they heard the police sirens arriving in the background. 

 

Sherlock suddenly ran off, albeit with stiff movements. John wanted to yell after him but he knew that it wouldn't help, and probably not even register.

 

Lestrade and his team came storming from the cars, and Winston seemed to have accepted his fate as he didn't run away.

 

John handed Lestrade the gun. "I have to get to Sherlock. Winston attacked him." Was all he said and he ran off in the direction he had seen Sherlock disappear. 

 

The problem was that with the sun setting already, given the late season, he would never be able to find someone with a black coat. So he reached down into his pocket, adrenaline still pumping through his veins as he pressed the call button on Mycroft’s contact on his phone.

 

"John?"

 

"Mycroft! Sherlock's run off, I need your help, he could be hurt and I think he's about to have a meltdown." He said as he still ran.

 

"Hang on, I'll get my team looking through the CCTV. Tell me, what happened?"

 

"We were called on a case with a boy soccer team. And Sherlock figured it out. And now the guy found us and attacked him." John tried to explain, inhaling after every short sentence. He was slowing down now, he had no idea if Sherlock had gone into a side alley to hide or if he maybe ran home. They weren't too far from Baker Street.

 

"We found him. He headed to your left."

 

"To St Barts? Why would he go there? He hates hospitals, even if he knew he was injured."

 

"No he isn't inside it, but there is a hidden alley behind it, behind the garbage can."

 

"Well, better than the roof." John commented drily. He was about to hang up when Mycroft started talking again.

 

"John. Whatever the state you will find him in, do Not touch him. Don't even get close to him. He went away because he needs to be alone. Otherwise he would have stayed with you. I repeat: do Not touch him." Mycroft ended the call after that.

 

John was puzzled and didn't know what to do now - should he at least go there to make sure he isn't hurt or hurts himself? 

Or should he stay completely away?

And why shouldn't he touch him? Weren't hugs a way to calm him down?

 

He was about to go investigate, when suddenly Greg Lestrade ran up to him. "He hiding at the hospital again?"

 

John blinked at him. "Again? So he's done this before?"

 

Greg nodded. "Listen John, what I know from personal experience is that when Sherlock Holmes hides, he doesn't want anyone near him."

 

"But why? What if he's currently choking to death because this ... lunatic hurt his throat?"

 

"About that, you never told me what exactly happened." Greg pointed out in hopes of changing the subject.

 

"Winston ambushed us.. or well, him. He had Sherlock in a choke hold and pointed a gun at us, yelled at us for ruining his career and stuff." John said, glancing back at the street that led to St Barts in hopes of Sherlock suddenly appearing, all fine and dandy.

 

Suddenly they heard a scream, more like a very loud yell, followed by a lot of noise coming from their left. 

 

John and Lestrade immediately started running.

 

 

They rounded the corner, Lestrade showing John where to go and they soon found Sherlock, who had managed to throw one of the big garbage bins over, the contents all still spilling out through the opening. Behind it, Sherlock turned in on himself, his hands repeatedly bashing against his own head and they could hear his ragged breathing.

 

"Sher-" "shush..!" 

 

After making sure that there was no blood anywhere, Lestrade grabbed John by his arm and pulled him away again. 

 

"We have to be quiet, John." Lestrade whispered to him.

 

"So you do know that he is on the spectrum." John pointedly asked.

 

Greg sighed quietly. "Yeah, I know. I mean, after he almost bit my hand off when I first found him like this, I kind of knew that he wasn't exactly 'normal'. Took a while, but I did my research as he keeps telling Anderson to, and well.. Aspergers, that's what it was called, right?" 

 

John nodded. He mentally flinched at the image of an out-of-mind Sherlock trying to bite Lestrade's hand off. 

"So what do we do now?"

 

Greg shrugged. "Waiting."

 

"..how long do these normally last?"

 

Greg leant back against the brick wall. "Can take from ten minutes to mere hours. Depends on what happened."

 

John leant against the wall next to him. "Well, guess this could take all night then, in that case. He was already struggling with dyspraxia and was about to throw a tantrum when he couldn't tie his shoe, just maybe fifteen minutes before Winston happened."

 

Greg sighed sadly. "Really have to get that stupid lamp fixed." 

 

John raised an eyebrow at that.

 

"In the evidence room. He kept complaining about a broken light bulb, said its noises were driving him crazy."

 

John blinked. "I didn't hear anything."

 

"Yeah, nobody on the force does, either. But he kept complaining for about a while, every time he's in that specific room. I was surprised he didn't today."

 

"Probably grew sick of nobody listening to him." John commented, and Sherlock was trying to throw another garbage can over, from the sounds of it. "Shouldn't we try to get him to stop? The staff won't be pleased to find this mess."

 

Greg shook his head. "We can clean up afterwards, if you want. But for now, just let him take it out on objects rather than himself or other people."

 

John nodded without further comment.

 

 

 

About an hour of waiting later, they carefully made their way closer to the now quiet Sherlock, who just sat on the cold ground, looking completely spent.

 

"Sherlock?" John asked him quietly. "Can you hear me?"

 

Sherlock just 'mm'ed. 

 

"Come on buddy, get back on your feet and we'll go home." John said and immediately regretted saying those last words, because they had been what he told him before they got ambushed.

 

Sherlock definitely hadn't appreciated it, if his panicked look was anything to go by.

 

"It's okay. I'll get you both home safely." Lestrade chimed in, holding out a helping hand.

 

Sherlock sighed and let himself be pulled to his shaky legs by Greg. 

 

* * *

  

Once Lestrade had them both at 221B, he got a call saying that there had been a rampage concerning the garbage cans of St Barts, and he couldn't help but laugh.

 


	6. My traumatic experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a chapter to this work, but a chapter of my life.

 

My traumatic experience 

 

 

So, a lot of you are probably wondering why my updates suddenly stopped, everywhere. 

 

Before I start telling, please please please leave now if hospitals, doctors, surgeries, all kinds of tubes inside a body, coughing blood, near death experiences or medical interventions trigger you. It doesn't make you less caring, and I just want you all to be safe.

 

 

Okay so, on the 21st of August I had major surgery of my jaws, called a "B-Max". Basically both of my jaws were cut and re-positioned. Planned was that I'd be asleep until the middle of the next day, while intubated because I could suffocate from the extreme swelling (you can find pictures on my instagramxenay99 ) and with a nasogastric tube so that I couldn't coke on my vomit, and a Foley catheter because of how long I was supposed to be asleep.

 

Yeah, you probably already guessed it; I woke up at night. Because my asthma lungs were completely closed, with so much mucus like URGH. So one funny thing is that when you are intubated (through the nose since they had to operate in my mouth), you cannot make a single noise and you cannot cough. I had a woman with curly black hair down to her shoulders standing behind me, yelling at a man on the side of the screeching monitor (since my blood oxygen must have dropped and probably my heart rate super high; I have chronic tachycardia so readings of up to 160 bpm are normal when just walking, but the painkillers they gave me there had my pulse completely normal. Sadly those painkillers have killed my grandma because they cause kidney failure, so I got off of them as soon as possible) asking him how I could possibly be awake. On the right in front of me was one of those food tray wagon thingies with a clipboard and a blank paper, along with a blue thin pen (I'm just explaining all of this in detail because I still remember EVERYTHING.) and my dyslexic ass managed to write 'sthatus asthmraticuss' but the message got across. For those who don't know what it means, it's basically when your entire bronchi have closed up from the inflammation and mucus that comes from an asthma attack, and it causes a ton of deaths every year if not medically treated immediately. I don't really know how this happened next since I only had one tubus through my nose, which was causing the severe asthma attacks (yes, plural.) but anyways: I got some connection piece between the oxygen I was apparently connected to and my tube, that immediately filled my lungs with some sort of reliever medication, and the woman then came with some sort of suction thingy, you know those that dentists have? And she somehow got it through the tube as well and told me to cough. 

 

I don't even wanna describe it but gosh, weirdest feeling EVER. And it's not like when you normally cough and you'd cough it up. You just sound like you're dry heaving liquids. Like. I can't even describe it.

 

Anyways, they gave me more of the sedativ stuff after I could breathe again. Only to wake maybe an hour or so later, again, with exactly the same problem.

 

Repeat. Woke up again, and I guess maybe they have this rule that '3 times a charm' means after the third time they just gotta get the tube out because it was more of a risk than being without. So this elder guy is there and while holding the end of the breathing tube in my nose closed with his fingers, he also accidentally held my nose closed, and told me to breathe (so that they could be sure that the swelling wasn't interfering) and gosh. You lay there in the ITU, surrounded by complete strangers, who block out all your oxygen supplies, and tells you to try to breathe. Well, after about ten seconds of fearing that I would suffocate Now, I managed to breathe little bubbles through the other nose hole with the nasogastric tube. Nurses happy, they pulled that thing out.

 

And let me tell you, I thought they were gonna rip my nose bone from my face. Because those things have a round, thicker plastic at the end. And all that blood was just pouring out and I was coughing blood from my completely ruined asthma bronchi-

 

And I was So thirsty. Like, it hurt to swallow, so dry was my throat and mouth. And I wasn't allowed to drink until the end of the day because of the risk of me throwing up. 

So here is a little fun fact about nasogastric tubes that are connected to bags. I got moved to the normal station at around... I think 12 o clock or something, my mum already waiting in the room and talking to my room mate. She had been wondering where I was because I was supposed to be moved that morning, and when she asked the workers, they told her that I was sleeping peacefully. YEAH RIGHT.

Anyways. So I get wheeled to my room, completely exhausted and just f*cking done with this world, (coughing up so much blood the entire two weeks after that) and my mum wants to sit on my bed to touch me or something, and she moves the puke bag (lets call it that) from my bed down to the floor. 

Major. Mistake. 

Turns out, all that got collected in the bag flows upwards. So I had about half a liter of stomach acid slooowly going through my nose, down my throat, into my stomach, and I just yell at her to put the f**** thing back up. And thus began the slooooow process of it all going back out from my stomach, through my nose into the bag. And I just said "omg I'm gonna puke." Well I obviously did through the tube but let me just say that this was agonizing because of how slow it goes and you feel SO SICK. I haven't thrown up since I was maybe 7. So that was one hell of an experience.

 

And then there was that catheter between my legs. If you never had one before, let me tell you that that shit hurts like absolute hell. I can't speak for guys but woooooh. I couldn't move my body without being in agony. And I didn't care about anything when I just begged one of the (female) nurses to get that thing out. 

Well according to google, those things are supposed to be removed slowly. And she ripped it right out so fast, jesus. I only just got rid of the UTI that she gave me from that. It's November now. And yeah, I have nerve damage in my back and am sometimes more, sometimes less urinary incontinent, which can make it hard to notice if I have an infection because I can't feel a thing sometimes and get those pretty often, but this lasted for Months. Just, wow. (After that one experience with an urologist, I won't go to a doctor about something like this unless it turns into a kidney infection again. I don't care what you think of me for this.) 

 

Shortly after being released from the hospital, me and my family went to Italy for a much needed vacation. And while we were there, someone dear to me had lost the fight against cancer. It wasn't even half a year from the diagnosis to the.. death. 

 

So... that pretty much sums up most of it. I still have flashbacks of it, especially nasty now that the weather is such a killer to my asthma and every time I have an attack (almost every day) it makes me relive the whole sucking out mucus and coughing into nothing, and I'm afraid that it's turning into PTSD. Yes, I know what PTSD is like, I already suffer from it from something else. But right now I just can't focus on pretty much anything, so writing has been just staring at a blank page with my thoughts running wild and more often than not, ending in flashbacks. So I'm sorry for not updating, but I have to deal with this right now.


End file.
